


White Knight

by IWentToHellForThis (orphan_account)



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, F/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 15:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/IWentToHellForThis
Summary: One fateful night at Beacon, Jaune confronts his inner demons.





	White Knight

Jaune Arc.

The moon was bright tonight, illuminating Beacon’s campus. The areas and courtyards around the dormitories and student areas were lit at night by lampposts, but the rest of the academy was dark. Those areas were mostly deserted, which is why he often came here to walk and think.

Jaune stopped in the middle of a small, grassy park and looked up. On full display, the glowing, shattered moon dominated the center of the night sky. Against a backdrop of the few stars whose light could still be seen, the moon would normally be considered gorgeous. It was large enough to look as if it would smash into the planet, yet the heavenly adornments around it and its own elegance seemed to promise it would always be in a separate dimension — a world of twinkling stars among endless night; a place forever apart from the profane.

But tonight, Jaune didn’t see beauty. He saw himself, far above: his image was hosted in the highest heavens.

Jaune Arc was a hero’s name.

Tonight was a full moon on the solar calendar, the time when the celestial pair coalesced to appear perfectly in front of one another. Here, unhidden by the curve of Remnant’s horizon, the moon was free to encompass the night in its full glory, to eclipse the entire sky.

Yet it could not. The moon was shattered and broken, unable to fully shine even with every advantage. It was unwhole. It would never be able to blanket the sky as a full, round body could; the ocean of smashed chunks that spread out from it and artificially enhanced its appearance were a pathetic attempt to try. It was a splintered, malformed rock falsely magnified by its own broken pieces, like sycophants and parasites reassuring a fallen king he was still great. It would never be a moon. It was unworthy of the title.

He looked down in disgrace, a defeat he only allowed himself to acknowledge when no one would see. He just stood there, head down, eyes closed. No one else would ever see him this way, no one else would ever know what he felt. In the daytime, he was happy and cheerful. He tried to make jokes and make friends; he tried to do the noble thing in every situation. He tried to be the gregarious, well-loved hero Jaune Arc was supposed to be. But at night, the truth was as bright as the moon.

Jaune Arc was not a hero.

Jaune Arc didn’t deserve his name. He didn’t deserve the ancestral sword and shield that hung at his side. He didn’t deserve the armor he wore, forged with the colors of his family crest.

Jaune Arc was about to be kicked out of Beacon; he knew it would happen soon. He had tried to train, tried to get better, but he was still behind lowly students in the preparatory schools. Out of the kindness of her heart, Pyrrha Nikos was helping him, but her abilities and skill only made his own shortcomings more obvious, like how tonight allowed the moon’s damage to be clearly seen. He didn’t know if she did because she felt sorry for someone so pathetic, or because her sense of altruism and responsibility demanded she try and make sure every student was a decent fighter. It didn’t really matter.

Jaune had been raised in a household with seven sisters who alternatively bullied him and coddled him. He was always obeying some woman who was vastly superior to him, be it his sisters or Pyrrha. Never was he the strong one; never was he the teacher; never was he looked up to. No one ever took him seriously.

Before Beacon, he had doubled down on trying to play the part. He tried to be the chivalrous gentleman; he defended girls from any perceived slight, from any insult to their honor or respect. But people just laughed at his social ineptitude. In school, the other kids — even the girls — would always bully him. He tried to dismiss and ignore their insults, to insist the words had no truth, but every phrase painfully stung no matter what. The words hurt because he knew they were true. Pussy. Beta male. “Cuck.” White knight.

Jaune Arc wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even a man.

He allowed himself to fall over, flat on his face. He hated the fact that he flinched. He deserved to feel the pain.

There he was, lying on the ground like a worm. Impotent. Pitiful. Powerless. Emasculated.

Eventually, he heard a _click clack._

Slowly, almost hatefully, he raised his head to look. He suspected, but he had to make sure.

He was right. Weiss Schnee was walking down one of the sidewalks in front of him, towards the park. He was in the middle of the grass, but it was just dark enough to conceal his prone silhouette from someone who was only making a cursory glance over the area.

Weiss was the only other person who came out here at night. She would walk around just as he did. Whenever she saw him, she always made a point of avoiding him. A few times he had tried to talk to her, and she hadn’t even responded, just hurried off the other way. He told himself she probably just wanted to be alone, but the way she did it…it was like she was mocking him. She acted as if she was threatened or in danger. From Jaune. Jaune, the pathetic, castrated little white knight.

With a sneer, he wondered if she would have avoided Neptune the same way.

He watched her turn the corner, walking into a wide alleyway between two lecture halls. He dug his fingers deep into the dirt and let himself shake with anger. Then, silently, carefully, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then to his feet.

Crouched, he slowly made his way over to a bench close to where she had gone. He hid behind it and listened closely, following the noise of her heels. He took the opportunity to carefully scan the area. There was no else one around, and they were on the far side of the campus, opposite the dormitory side. There wouldn’t be anyone else in a very wide radius.

After he was sure her footsteps were getting fainter, he rushed out to the edge of the nearest building. He inched to the end and cautiously took a glance; Weiss was walking away and her back was turned. She was wearing her usual attire: high white boots, a white dress that ended in a wide rimmed petticoat, and a white, open flared shrug colored red on the inside. He couldn’t see her sword at her hip; she usually didn’t bring it on her walks. The only other thing inside the alleyway was a large dumpster against the left wall.

The lecture halls were large, and she hadn’t even gotten a quarter into the alley. After she passed the dumpster, Jaune started following, quickly tiptoeing after her. He couldn’t help but notice how feminine and sylphlike his careful, prancing pose was — it vexed him even more.

He was slowly gaining on her. When he was nearing the dumpster, she stopped. Instinctively, he raced behind the dumpster and pressed himself against the wall.

Silence.

He could hear his heartbeat, but he waited patiently.

Jaune knew that when said a girl said no, it was final. His sisters beat it into him. He would have known even if they hadn’t; that was just the kind of person he was. In high school, he had asked many girls out, and every one had turned him down — often with laughter and postmortem jokes and jeers. He accepted it. He never spoke to them again if he didn’t have to, wary of coming off as a creep. He avoided them on the grounds and didn’t look at them in the hallways.

But Jaune was naturally a sensitive person. He took every rejection to heart; he interpreted them as a condemnation of his entire being. He felt every taunt and jab as if it was meant literally, even banter among close friends would bother him. All of it hurt him. He started to shy away from everyone, especially the opposite sex. He was infringing on them, offending them, by even asking, because how dare someone like him approach them. Jaune always put the feelings of others above his own, so eventually he just stopped asking. He came to accept that no one wanted him, and that he didn’t deserve a relationship. His place was to stay out of the way and do his best to avoid offending anyone.

He was barely able believe the news when he learned he had been accepted into Beacon. Forging his documents had been his one gamble to escape his life and try to be a hunter like many of his lineage, and it worked. Living independently of his family, and among different people, Beacon was a new start. He resolved to put his past behind him and try life again.

So he tried. He approached Weiss Schnee. He tried to be casual, with jokes and puns, like Neptune would have done. He tried to be romantic, with songs and poems, like his sisters told him would win any heart. They also told him to keep trying, sometimes girls played hard to get with someone they liked. His sisters were liars. He knew now that if any guy tried that on any of them, they would laugh at him too.

He had humiliated himself for Weiss, and she just flicked him aside like an annoying fly. He was hurt afterwards, but only because he got his hopes up. He should have known better. The fact Weiss rejected him didn’t make him angry — after all, who would want him? When he found she was attracted to Neptune, he had even risked a rare friendship to try and put them together. Jaune never had a chance, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to make her happy anyway.

What made him angry was what the others did. After a lifetime of trying his best not to overstep his boundaries, not to come off as a ‘creep,’ Yang Xiao Long lectured him that ‘no means no’ and when to stop. As if he didn’t know. Nora Valkyrie called him a ‘stalker.’ Even Lie Ren had privately told him he was coming off overbearingly, in his neutral, toneless way. Pyrrha was the only one who didn’t openly mock him, but she became uncomfortable whenever the subject of Weiss or Jaune’s dating attempts came up. It was clear she was disgusted with him, and just didn’t voice it to be polite. But most of all, Neptune — after everything Jaune had done for him — had told him he was being “predatory.”

The **nerve.**

His teeth clenched in searing rage, but he kept perfectly still. Finally, the _click clack_ resumed. He waited until he confirmed the footsteps were moving away from him.

He peaked out from behind the dumpster; she was only about ten meters away. He resumed his calculated stalking, silently but swiftly closing the distance. As he drew closer he let himself get clumsy, sacrificing stealth for speed.

She twirled around, her body lowered and tensed, just before he reached her. He ground to a halt.

After a few seconds, she relaxed. “Jaune? Just what do you think you’re doing? You scared me!” She glanced to the side of him, at the dumpster. “Have you been following me?”

He stared at her blankly. She rested her hands on her hips and leaned to one side. “You’re weird, Jaune. And I don’t like you. I want you to leave me alone from now on, in case you didn’t get the message all the other times I’ve told you. Now go away.”

Jaune grinned. It was funny. He was a head taller than her and had just been stalking her. He immediately confirmed that she didn’t even have her sword, but she wasn’t threatened at all. Why? Because he was Jaune. Weak, pathetic, cowardly Jaune. Jaune couldn’t hurt a fly. He was just an annoyance, the subject of cheap jokes people made when they couldn’t think of anything better.

He craned his neck to look at the moon. It was just like his masculinity: piecemeal and unwhole. No wonder no one wanted him, he wasn’t even a real man. Just like Remnant’s moon, he was merely a pretender.

The moon meant more than that. He used to stare at it at night when he was young, awed by its grace and splendor. He used to be captivated by its size and power, by its distant, heavenly purity. It represented everything he idolized and romanticized: the brave, indefatigable heroes he wanted to be like. His grand-father, his great grand-father, and so on, all the way back to the Great War. It represented all of his hopes and ambitions. It represented the sword and shield by his side. It represented the man he once wanted to be. A man who would never do what he was about to do. A hero. A protector. A gentleman. A knight.

Weiss narrowed her eyes. “Jaune…why are you crying?”

_Because even a moon can shatter._

He charged her, ramming into her with enough force that both fell to the ground. As he expected, her aura was up — it had probably been up since she first turned around when he hid — but knew what he was going to do. They both jumped up, and Jaune launched into a flurry of punches against the stunned girl. The first few all hit, but she blocked the rest, having come to her senses. He spun in a circle, using his aura to provide more force for the motion and swinging his right leg out as he finished. She withdrew, but not in time, and his shin slammed into her side. She was knocked somewhat to his left, providing Jaune the opportunity to smoothly transition into a brutal left hook. His form was perfect: his legs drove, his torso aligned, and his arm and fist delivered the energy into her jaw. It was enough to knock her over once again.

As he planned, she jumped up once again, acting on instinct rather than staying down to analyze the situation or talk to him. He charged again, feinting into a shove by angling his right shoulder to her. She dodged to the left, and he followed up by transferring his momentum into another left hook, this one aimed for her stomach. Jaune drove his right heel into the ground and swiveled on it, facing her with his body tensed. Caught by surprise once more, she staggered back, into the right hook Jaune set up. This one flung her into the wall rather than the ground.

Jaune followed up with a double hook after her body recoiled off the wall, sending her back into it. She ducked under the next set, but he swung his leg around when she tried to run to the right. She batted it down and skipped a meter in front of him.

For a moment, Jaune was worried. If she turned and ran, her glyphs could propel her faster than he could catch up. But he had been in control of the fight so far, and knew what he was doing. She was in combat mode, as if fighting some Grimm. He hadn’t even drawn his sword; he didn’t want to startle her out of the trance. She wouldn’t think to run. Not before it was too late.

She charged forward, propelling into her own punches. She hadn’t been thoroughly trained in hand to hand combat, but she knew enough. Jaune crossed his arms and held his hands on each side of his head, forming a shield that blocked her strikes against his face. Then he snapped his head down, knocking her back with his crossed forearms.

Wasting no time, he unwrapped his arms in quick succession — first the right, first clenched and mostly bent at the elbow, to strike her face, then the left, fully extended, to strike her again after the right had forced her back.

He rushed her but she jumped back, twisting to her side to assume a boxing position. She swiveled as he circled her, always keeping her right shoulder facing him so her dominant left hand could punch.

He broke his guard to allow her to hit him, using the feint to sweep her forward leg. She scrambled to find her balance before she fell, but the opening allowed him to slam her head with an aura-driven right hook.

She didn’t stumble this time, instead using the momentum to slid back and resume her stance. She retaliated immediately, attacking with a quick succession of punches, kicks, and feints. She was now fully in fighting mode, but he didn’t care.

Jaune had always been conditioned to fail. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy from the start. He saw himself fail, and told himself he couldn’t win. It happened too many times to count: in every combat contest or tournament in school, in every private practice when his father taught him how to use the family weapons. Against the Grimm he held back because he was unsure; he was afraid he would make a mistake and die. Against human opponents he held back because he was afraid of making himself look like an idiot if he tried to be anything more than the loser he was. They were deep, subconscious torments — fears he knew existed but could do nothing about. Even in his private sessions with Pyrrha, the most supportive person he had ever known, he was terrified of embarrassing himself. She expected him to be weak and disappointing. If he let himself go, he might take her by surprise and hurt her by mistake, or worse, make her laugh at his pathetic attempt and scold him to know his limits and stay in his place.

But none of that applied now. The moment he rushed Weiss Schnee, there was no turning back. He didn’t care anymore. He had nothing left to care about.

Jaune was a savage. He blocked or parried every punch. Every time she kicked, he caught her shin with one hand and shoved the other into her leg with enough strength to dislocate it. He punished her for every mistake: a punch to the neck when she overextended on a hook, a kick in the stomach when she passed to far to his side, an elbow to the face when she leaned too far in. When she lunged he caught her and threw her into the wall; when she withdrew he crouched forward and tripped her with a whirling kick. Each movement was perfectly backed by his aura; every slam and punch landed with power appropriate for fighting a beowolf. He fought like a honed warrior, like a fully-fledged hunter.

Like someone named Jaune Arc should fight.

She lunged to his right to deliver a rare right hook, hoping to surprise him by using her off hand. Instead, he side stepped to the left and tripped her. She spun clockwise in a half circle to regain her balance, ending with her back to him and facing the right wall of the alley. Summoning the full strength of his aura, he lunged into her, his right shoulder and arm colliding with and aligning neatly with the curve of her back. He threw them both into the air, slamming her body into the wall with crushing force. It would have been enough to break every bone in her upper body if she was a regular human; instead her aura absorbed the full force of the impact.

She fell to the ground after they disengaged. He waited for her to stumble to her feet. She turned to face him, almost in their original position. The frame of her body flickered and sparked, a sign her aura was growing weak. It was enough stimuli for her to finally break off the fight.

“What do you want?!” she shouted, panting heavily.

Slowly, with his arms down at his sides, he approached her. She backed away, but allowed him to close the distance until they were barely an inch apart.

He towered over her. He looked along her flowing hair, still almost perfect despite her exertion, and down into her wide blue eyes.

“What do you want?” she repeated, but this time it was a shaky whisper. Her eyelids twitched as she looked up at him. She was doing her best to act calm and firm, but she was afraid.

He smiled at her newfound fear. Then he thrust his left hand down her dress, going under her bra and fondling one of her breasts. At the same time his right hand reached under her skirt, groping in-between her legs.

For a moment, she stood dumbfounded. Jaune knew she would never expect him to do this, and it would take a second for her to register it. He tensed his body in preparation.

Once the realization hit, she screamed and jerked herself away from him. She turned to run, but he was ready. He threw himself after her and wrapped his arms around her chest. After her movement was arrested, he took the chance to adjust his grip to be as a firm as possible. Now it was time for the second — and most important — part.

She struggled viciously, kicking the air and shaking her body and head, but his hold was unbreakable. She twisted them both to face the left wall of the alley, and then her thrashing began to die down.

Jaune prepared himself. He closed his eyes and focused on projecting as much of his aura as possible. The initial fight had been just a prelude, a way to whittle down her aura while preserving his own. He had known she wouldn’t use the full power of her abilities against him as long as she believed Jaune Arc was just a minor nuisance instead of a threat. It had gone wonderfully — her aura was cracking, but his was almost at full strength. But it couldn’t last forever before she realized what was going on. He was lucky it had gone as far as it did.

He couldn’t have his way with her until her aura was broken, and he couldn’t win in a straight fight. Without her sword, she was entirely a ranged combatant, and she would just run if he managed to survive her onslaught of glyphs and get close. Jaune had surprised himself with his own ability in the fist fight, but he wasn’t stupid. Though her aura reserves were much less than his, she was far better at bringing them to bear. Jaune didn’t even know his semblance.

The only way to break her aura now was to exhaust it. He couldn’t fight her, but he didn’t have to. All he had to do was hold on.

Suddenly, her body went limp in his arms. He didn’t open his eyes; he didn’t need to see to know a line of glyphs was appearing in the air around them. She wouldn’t risk unleashing them if she believed she would get hit, so he pulled her into him protectively. He heard the wisp and crackle of multiple glyphs fully materializing in a semi-circle behind him. He gritted his teeth in determination, and waited.

A torrent of molded icicles poured out of each glyph. They were thick and engraved with the damask designs that characterized Weiss’ semblance, every one sharpened to a deadly tip. He strained as he absorbed the flood of summoned javelins; each one felt like a needle stabbed into his back despite his aura fully absorbing them. He squeezed her as hard as he could, forcing some of her aura to fight against his grip so he didn’t crush the air out of her lungs. It didn’t stop the bladed downpour, but it deprived it of fuel enough to stem the tide.

Then the knives stopped coming. He knew he wouldn’t have a long reprieve — he could feel a new set of glyphs forming as soon as the first ones faded away. After a few seconds, he felt tremendous heat building up behind him, and then his back was immolated with flames. Jaune opened his eyes and snapped his head around to look at the glyphs; they were orange-red and currently pouring fire like a set of miniature gateways to hell. He had thought Weiss needed dust to use this type of attack, but his own performance earlier had taught him that desperate people could be full of surprises.

He stoically endured the flames. His protection wasn’t failing — not yet — but he felt like he was being cooked in his own aura. The heat continued to grow stronger, to the point where he could no longer feel his back and felt searing heat on his face and hands just from the proximity. After final gout of infernal flames, the glyphs dissipated out of existence.

He caught his breath during the next reprieve. His aura was still strong, and rapidly eased the last burning pains away, but it was taking a beating. Weiss was still comatose in his arms, and her aura was still protecting her chest from his squeeze. This wasn’t over yet.

A kaleidoscope of black glyphs appeared all around them. Jaune barely had enough time to assess the situation and react. He jumped up and spread his legs in a firmer, more stable position, then held Weiss as tightly as still could. The glyphs activated, hammering him with ethereal pushes and pulls from every direction. He grappled them to maintain his balance, but Weiss broke into struggle once again, shifting in his arms and furiously kicking at his shins. He realized the glyph’s forces were not directed at him, but at her.

Clumsy. She was panicking, and thus making mistakes. If she had directed the phantom forces against him, they could have knocked and thrown the two around the alley, possibly allowing her to break away from him at some point. Instead, she was just trying to violently jostle herself loose. He was able to stay standing and focus his attention on keeping her in place.

After a minute of ferocious effort from both of them, the black glyphs faded away. Weiss was breathing heavily now, and her aura struggled to allow her chest to expand under Jaune’s strangulating arms. The two rested as best they could for a while, and then the next contest began.

Jaune heard several glyphs forming behind him. He chanced a look back to reveal four massive azure designs coming into existence, two above him on the wall and two on the ground. He looked ahead and nervously probed his aura. Whatever was coming, he wasn’t sure he could take it.

He anxiously bit his lip as he heard the glyphs fully crystalize, but nothing happened. He realized Weiss was preparing herself for whatever she was about to do, and there was nothing he could do but wait.

A high-pitched, searing noise interrupted the silence, nearly deafening him. A terrible scraping noise came from behind, like icebergs churning against each other. Then he was impaled — or, at least, he felt like it. He normally would have screamed or cried out, but now he just growled.

He twisted his head to see four massive, static ice structures projecting from each of the glyphs — two stalagmites from the grounded glyphs, and two stalactites from those on the wall. They all met in his back, where his aura constantly burned their tips away before they could penetrate. Each one was the size of him.

He felt Weiss shaking. He knew she was expending just as much effort to maintain the giant spears as he was to keep them at bay. It became a battle of wills.

She wanted to save herself, to get away…but that was all. Jaune had nothing, and yet so much more. He could match every ounce of desperation she had, and he had hate as well. The sheer spite that a lifetime of being stomped and spit on brought. He grinded his teeth and forced the pain out of his mind, until he felt the icicles start to tremble and shift. He heard them crack and splinter as he felt them sway in his back, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of one of them shattering into a shower of shards. Shortly after another shattered, and then a third.

The fourth hardened and solidified, since Weiss now only had one to focus on. But Jaune was just as liberated, and he powered through the lessoned agony until it broke as well.

She cried out, and her body jerked once in his arms. Then her head fell back to rest against his chest. He examined her closely. He squeezed the air out of her lungs; there was no aura to stop him. When he loosened his grip, her chest expanded. She was still breathing, but was she unconscious? He shook her, but there was response.

Then he noticed something in the corner of his eye. He jolted his head to the right; a solid white glyph was spinning on the ground. Something was emerging from it, but he stained to tell what. An armored crest, then a four eyed faceplate, then the tips of two heavily curved horns–

_She was summoning a Grimm!?!_

His eyes widened in shock. After a brief trance, he looked down and nearly panicked again. In his surprise, he had loosened his grip almost enough for her to fall through. She was so utterly focused on the summon that she hadn’t taken advantage of the opening.

His first instinct was to try and stop her, but he stayed himself long enough to look again. The summon — he could now see it was a boarbatusk — was flickering and blinking, and occasionally descending back into the glyph, only to be dragged up again. He realized this was the first time she had done this. He also realized it was exhausting her.

The Grimm slowly emerged, a process filled with reversals and false starts that barely made net progress. The limp body in his arms swayed like a ragdoll whenever he moved, every last bit of her mind and aura devoted to her ultimate trick.

He waited tensely. Half of the beast, the size of a bull, was out. He wanted to wait as long as possible, to drain every bit of her energy.

Two-thirds. The Grimm’s snout and upper tusks were now fully visible. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

Three-quarters. The creature’s jagged mouth and giant tusks were now present. Jaune wasn’t going to take the chance.

He released Weiss and grabbed her by the hair on her scalp. With all his might, he slammed her head into the wall in front of them.

Her aura and concentration shattered. The summoned Grimm disappeared in an instant, and she fell to the ground. At last.

After a long pause to let himself rest, he was upon her.

She was laying on her chest, so he tore off her shrug first. It was thick and richly made, so he had to summon his strength to rip it in half down her back. He pushed each side off of her arms, then flipped her over.

She kicked, punched, bit, slapped, shoved, screamed, and desperately fought to keep him off of her. He was impressed; she barely had the strength to move and was animated by sheer tenacity. But it was a meaningless struggle. He had aura and she didn’t. It just slowed him down.

He started to pull her dress down, alternating between pushing the hem and pulling the skirt. When her bra was fully exposed, he ripped it off and shoved the two cups into her mouth, then tied the straps around her head. He didn’t think her screaming would attract attention — if there was anyone around, they would have heard the battle — but it still made him nervous. He took a short break to pull her long boots and socks off.

By the time he finished taking her dress off, she had stopped fighting out of exhaustion. He crouched next to her and looked over her body, savoring the moment he would remove her red-laced white panties. He put one hand under them, against her thigh, and pulled. They snapped, and he slowly pulled them away from her body.

He admired her nude form. All of her well-toned muscles were on display through her skin, still tense from the fight. Her chest heaved up and down as she took deep breaths, showcasing her breasts.

He sighed. For a moment, he pictured himself in a very different context — in a bed next to her, with pictures of them smiling together on top of flanking nightstands. He watched her breathe, naked, not from exertion but in peaceful sleep. He looked over the hands he would massage after she had a stressful day at work; he looked over the flowing hair he would happily brush and style for her in the morning.

A single tear ran down his cheek. That was the life he wanted. A happy life, where he could be the person everyone expected him to be, where he could make others smile and smile himself. Where he wouldn’t be a disgrace or a joke. Where he wouldn’t be so alone.

He rubbed his eyes and shook the tears away. That wasn’t the life he was meant for. It never was.

He stood up, roughly pulling her to her feet by her upper arms. He took a step back and inspected her body, exploring every inch and crevice with his eyes. He didn’t notice her take off the makeshift gag until she let it fall to the ground. He prepared to quickly clamp her mouth shut if she screamed.

Instead, she pleaded. “Please, Jaune, please don’t do this to me. I know I was mean to you, I’m sorry, but, but…” She broke into tears, and barely gasped the next words. “Please don’t do this to me.”

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her and spun her around, then bent her over. He pushed his hand between her legs and cradled her, then pushed a finger inside. She was dry and tight. Good. This would hurt.

He slapped her ass hard enough to knock her over, then slowly backed away. She appeared too weak to run, and simply laid there crying. Nevertheless, he kept a careful eye on her as he stripped his armor off, then his shirt and pants, then his undergarments. He was going to make the most of this.

He pulled her back up to where she was, running his hand slowly — almost lovingly — along the middle of her back. He rested his hand firmly somewhat above her derriere, and then wrapped her offset ponytail around the other. He pulled her head up by her hair, forcing her to arch her back satisfyingly.

Still holding her hair, he moved behind her and prepared himself. He used his feet to push her ankles apart, making her adopt a wide position with her legs spread. He was already erect, but seeing her spread like this made his heart pound.

Gently pulling her hair with one hand and guiding himself with the other, he pushed into her. She sniffled and gasped for air loudly when he entered, a brief intensification of her sobbing to mark the moment of violation.

He thrust deeper slowly, not out of concern for her comfort, but to relish the experience. He was a virgin, of course, and he had always suspected she was too. Her tightness confirmed it; he considered himself average sized but he had to force his cock in centimeter by centimeter, breaking her in for the first time.

He didn’t bother to hide his gasps, though they were naturally subdued. She continued to silently cry, occasionally shuddering. He kept pushing until he was fully inside her, and then just stood still. He had never felt the pleasure of a woman’s embrace before, and Weiss was intoxicatingly tight. He closed his eyes and let his head fall backwards, drifting in the sensations as her walls tightly gripped around him.

Eventually he pulled out, as slowly as before. He looked down to inspect himself: there was some blood on his penis, but not too much. He was glad he didn’t ravish her right away; he didn’t want to see or smell the mess that might have made.

He reentered her. She was looser this time, but he still had to focus and push. He paused when fully inside her, to savor the feeling as before, then he re-positioned his hands on her shoulders. She flinched, understanding what that meant.

He started slowly as usual, slightly withdrawing and then pulling her back onto him. Eventually he moved faster, pulling out farther each time and then spearing back into her. Emotions and sensations flooded his mind with pleasure he had never felt before, and he couldn’t resist. He released himself inside her, making sure to thrust as deep as he could in the process. Shivering with the after effects of ecstasy, he reached under her to squeeze her breasts. He half-expected to have to fight her hands to reach the prizes, but she offered no resistance.

He pulled out and staggered back. He had every intention of going again, but he needed a few minutes to recover. Weiss stayed bent over, leaning against the wall with her hands. The minute shaking of her body revealed she was still crying, though it was much more subdued than before. She didn’t move, probably too afraid to.

Suddenly he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up. He wrapped his arms around her stomach and pulled her tightly against him, relishing the feel of her body pressed against his. He nestled his chin on her shoulder. He longed to kiss her neck as he caressed her, or at least nuzzle her head with his own, but thought better of it. This wasn’t love. It was far from it.

Jaune knew how to pleasure a woman, though he never had the chance. He trusted his sisters in that regard, at least. He started his hands all over her body, feeling her up for himself beforehand. When he was satisfied, he shifted to a far lighter touch — just the tips of his fingernails. They moved gently, slowly, all over her body, carefully avoiding her sexual areas. He moved in careful patterns, up and down, over and over, as if in a tantric ritual. He closed his eyes and allowed his body to slump, resting against her. Good foreplay took time even when the woman was willing, and Weiss had barely stopped crying. This would take a while, but he didn’t mind. He still needed to recover his vitality.

For five minutes he explored her with his tantalizing fingertips, occasionally shifting a full, heavy hand to massage certain areas: her inner thighs, her neck, the areas just underneath her breasts.

Her strength was beginning to return to her, and he knew she would struggle. He wrapped his left arm around her shoulders and tensed, holding her securely. She reached her hands back to scratch and claw at him, but his aura made the effort futile. Her grit betrayed her; as she prepared herself to fight, her body became more sensitive, and her heart pumped ample blood to her pleasure areas.

With his free hand, he delicately ran his fingertips down the sides of her stomach and then slid them down to tease her thighs, passing just close enough to her vulva for her to tense. He felt her take deep breaths and raise her arms up behind him, her fingers tracing up his sides. She was getting ready to do something, but he already had an inroad.

Ignoring the hostility, he moved his constricting hand to circle around her right breast, still pressing tightly against her to keep her in place. He did the same for her left breast with his free hand. Carefully, tastefully, he slid the tips of his index fingers from the base of each breast to the nipple, feeling a slight shiver run through her as he did so. He had been working her up for ten minutes now, it was about time.

He rubbed his fingertips along the tips of her nipples, feeling them stiffen against him. As he did so, he felt her hands hesitate against him. She took quick, deep breaths; he recognized the signs. Indecision. She was ready, but she didn’t attack him. It felt too good.

He cupped her breast with his left hand, gently fondling it but occasionally squeezing. His free hand descended — slowly, tantalizingly — down the middle of her chest and naval. He circled her vulva with his fingers, occasionally running them along her inner thighs. When her breathing deepened, he moved in, brushing his fingernails against her labia. He spread his fingers in a V and slid them over her sex, squeezing her vulva between them. She was swollen and aroused, and he purposefully danced his fingers over her clitoris to deny her.

Her hands, once posed to strike him, returned to his body — to grip him. He couldn’t help but smile. His thumb finally went to her clitoris, and she shivered when he first brushed it. He delicately massaged the nub, listening closely to her breathing and her body’s movements to determine what rhythms brought her the most pleasure. He experimented with his other fingers, moving them around her vulva and even penetrating her, always following the commands of her gasps and quivers. They betrayed her, telling him exactly what enthralled her.

He knew she wouldn’t orgasm. This wasn’t some rape fantasy; she was too scared and unwilling to come fully. Jaune didn’t really care whether she enjoyed the sex; he wasn’t doing this to be nice.

He couldn’t make her cum, but he could entice her. He could make sure that for the rest of her life, she would accuse herself of enjoying her rape. She would blame herself. She would tell herself maybe if she was smarter, maybe if she had better situational awareness, maybe if she had fought back harder, it wouldn’t have happened. With every quaver of her body, every clench of her vaginal walls, the doubt was there. The seed that would make her tell herself it was her fault, that she deserved it, that she wanted it.

She would blame it all on herself. She would blame herself for being weak and vulnerable, tell herself that she didn’t do everything she could because, deep down, she wanted it to happen. She would hate herself.

Just like Jaune did.

He shoved her forward, sending her to her hands and knees in surprise. He had worked her up for fifteen minutes, now he was ready to ravish her. He picked his sword and shield-scaffold up and pulled her back up, drawing the blade. No longer entranced by his fingers, she would try and fight, but he ended those thoughts when he held his blade against her neck. He guided his cock into her with his other hand; this time she was nice and wet.

He pulled her body against his as before, thrusting into her from behind. He thought of threatening her not to tell anyone, but quickly reconsidered.

“Tell everyone you want,” he whispered into her ear. “Go ahead. Tell them what I took from you. Tell them how ashamed you are. How violated you are. You can never get back what I took tonight.” She gasped, but didn’t dare reply.

He held her by the chin and lifted her head up, exposing her pale, smooth neck to his propositions. He ran his blade along it — his family’s sword, the blade of the heroic and righteous — cutting just deep enough to draw a steady flow of blood. He let the sword fall to the ground and watched. A long, horizontal stream of blood ran down her neck, pooling in the spaces behind her collarbone before overflowing. He quickly fondled and groped her breasts, wanting to enjoy them before the blood arrived.

On a whim, he pushed her upper body down and seized her wrists in each hand. He fucked her as hard as he could, pulling her arms towards him as he snapped back and forth with his torso. Then he pulled himself out and yanked her right arm back, spinning her around and sending her to the ground. He paused to take in the scene.

Weiss Schnee. Heiress of the Schnee Dust Company. One of the richest, most privileged people alive. An elitist, arrogant, pompous bitch. Here she was, laying in from of him, naked and with her arms and legs spread wide. Vulnerable. Broken. Raped.

She turned her head away from him when she wasn’t keeping her eyes closed. She wasn’t crying anymore, instead she stared blankly into space. She just wanted this to be over.

Jaune shook his head. Not yet.

He crouched down and pulled her hips forward, greedily taking in the sight of her naked body sprawled out for him. He penetrated her, holding her by the shoulders for support as he thrust in and out of her.

He looked over her plump breasts, her toned stomach, her tender face, her unspoiled hair. He almost couldn’t believe what he was looking at; he ran one of his hands all over her, as if she might prove a mirage unless he confirmed her presence.

His mind went over their epic contest, now far enough in the past for him to fully grasp it, and he gripped one of her breasts with near euphoria — he _deserved_ this. Weiss was one of the top combatants at Beacon for their class. Jaune was basically at the bottom. No one would have expected him to win a fight with her in any circumstance — in honestly, even he hadn’t. The miracle of his victory, the things he felt when he fought, and what it all meant, flooded through him. For once in his life, he _earned_ this. He earned every thrust he pushed into her; he earned every moment he fondled her breasts.

Jaune lowered himself on top of her, relishing the feel of her skin against his. He found her hands and spread them over her head with his own, holding her wrists tightly and making sure their arms were pressed together as much as possible. He did his best to thrust while keeping their stomachs pressed together; he wanted to experience all of her at once.

Here he was, fucking Weiss Schnee in the missionary position. Wasn’t this what he wanted?

He raised himself so he could penetrate her better and look at her body. He returned to holding her shoulders for support and railed her mercilessly. Her body jerked with every thrust; her cute little breasts bounced up and down. He held himself back as much as he could, trying to make this last as long as possible, but it was too much. When he came, he directed the remainder of his aura into the effort, filling her with his cum beyond normal human limits.

He lowered himself on top of her again, resting against her body as he shuddered in ecstasy. He stayed on top of her for several minutes afterwards, careful to make sure his cock still rested inside her.

He pulled himself off when the cloud of arousal finally left departed his mind. He retrieved his sword, wary of leaving it close to her, and stood up.

Just to be mean, he gathered her clothes from the ground and threw them in the massive dumpster. He had to stretch just to open it; it would be very difficult for her to get at them.

She hadn’t moved when he returned, either too tried or too traumatized. He dressed himself as if nothing happened, carefully following his early morning routine to strap on his various armor pieces.

He gently picked her up and moved her to the side of the wall. No longer intoxicated with emotions, it seemed the least he could do was not leave her in the middle of the alley, as silly as it sounded.

His spirits were low. It wasn’t guilt or remorse; he knew what he was doing the moment he followed her into the alley. It was more of a resignation. Tonight, he had consummated his life. He was always a failure, always a disgrace, never a Jaune Arc, but he had denied it up until now. Tonight, he finally accepted it.

But yet, he had seen something more in himself. He had fought with prowess he never imagined he could have, and had done so while barely thinking about it. He realized that, once he discarded everyone else, once he had nothing, he could unleash his true abilities. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was confident in himself. It wasn’t arrogance; he had no pretenses about being able to fight a full hunter, but he now understood that he was skilled enough to hold his own. Now that he didn’t care what anyone thought of him, he wouldn’t hold back.

The authorities would be searching for him tomorrow, but it didn’t matter. He knew what he was going to do. He would venture into the uninhabited lands of Remnant and spend his life fighting the Grimm, far away from society. If they killed him, so be it: he wasn’t afraid of death anymore.

There was an irony to it. As a child, he had read fairy tales and legends about solitary hunters and knights, clad in armor of shining argent, defending border towns and travelers against the Grimm onslaught. Perhaps, in a twist of fate, he would end up following his ancestor’s legacy, in his own failed, broken way. Jaune Arc, forever fighting his own personal crusade against the Grimm; a warrior with a dark past. Maybe someone would write a story about it.

He looked over at Weiss. She was curled up, softly sobbing, with the moonlight still reflecting off of her beautiful hair. Maybe in another world, in another life, they could have been together. Maybe he could have protected her instead of hurting her.

Maybe he could have been a hero instead of a rapist.

He shook his head and began to walk away.

He still had a couple hours before dawn. He would sneak back into his dorm room and quietly pack his belongings. The rest of his team were used to him coming in late at night after a walk. If was careful, he wouldn’t wake them. Even if he did, they were also used to him being restless and working on things at night. He would be able to make up a cover story for why he was taking his things.

Then he would begin the long walk to the borders of Vale.


End file.
